


when resistence is futile

by Spikedluv



Category: V (1983)
Genre: Community: smallfandomfest, M/M, Non-Graphic Violence, Pre-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-26
Updated: 2012-06-26
Packaged: 2017-11-08 15:06:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,458
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/444491
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spikedluv/pseuds/Spikedluv
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When he’s on assignment Mike Donovan runs into the last person he expected to see.</p>
            </blockquote>





	when resistence is futile

**Author's Note:**

> Pre-series. Mention of violence – story takes place during a rebellion in an unnamed country. Written for Round 11 of Small Fandoms Fest using the prompt: V (1983), Donovan/Tyler, an early encounter (doesn’t have to be their first; pre-series).
> 
> Written: June 26, 2012

Mike Donovan shifted the pack resting on his shoulder and adjusted his grip on the camera case in his hand. He was going to miss having Tony along on this assignment, but they could only get permission for one person to meet with the rebel leader (and besides, Tony’d had to play the part of decoy), so Mike had been forced to leave his cameraman behind. He’d be doing double duty this trip, but if he got the story he thought he might, it was going to be worth it.

Mike stepped out of the dim light of the hotel where he’d spent the night and squinted against the early morning sun before slipping on his sunglasses. The temperature was already rising and it made the tepid air he’d left behind inside the hotel feel almost cool in comparison. Mike glanced around, taking in his surroundings. Even at this early hour people were about – men gathering for the work truck, a woman holding a child’s hand and carrying a basket in her other hand, another woman serving coffee to men sitting on the dusty sidewalk outside a cantina, trucks carrying produce or squawking chickens to the market.

Mike was supposed to meet his guide outside the hotel – he’d never find the rebels without an escort to their camp, even if he’d been inclined to try. As he looked around Mike’s eyes fell on the figure leaning against a Jeep parked just down the street from the hotel. Mike groaned. He’d been on top of the world when he’d finally received word through his contacts that the leader of the rebel force had agreed to speak with him. It had been a coup for him and his station, and Mike had readily agreed to all of their stipulations, including that they would send someone to meet him and guide him to their camp. He just hadn’t been expecting it to be . . . .

“You’re late, Gooder,” Hamilton Tyler barked when he knew that Mike had finally spotted him.

Mike ignored the comment as he headed towards the Jeep. “What are you doing here, Tyler?”

“I’m your ride,” Tyler said, and Mike refused to let his mind wander off to where it wanted.

“Draw the short straw?” Mike said in an effort to cover his body’s reaction to the innocent comment.

“Volunteered,” Ham said. “You’re a magnet for trouble . . . .”

“And I know how much you like trouble,” Mike muttered, his mouth speaking the words before his brain could stop it.

The corners of Ham’s lips curled up in a smirk that Mike was all too familiar with, but he merely continued with his previous comment. “I figured no one else would believe me if I told them how much trouble you could be, and I didn’t want to risk any of my men on such a foolhardy mission, so I came myself.”

Mike was used to being on the opposite side of any issue where Ham was concerned, but that didn’t mean his digs didn’t hit home. “You don’t think it’s important that the world know what’s going on down here?”

“I think you’re tilting at windmills,” Ham said, but there wasn’t any acid in it, almost as if he’d become resigned to Mike and his causes. Mike didn’t know how to feel about that.

Ham broke the spell weaving around Mike by brusquely saying, “You were only supposed to bring what you could carry.”

“I’m carrying it,” Mike said, certain that the pack and case would be no problem.

Ham was silent for a moment, studying Mike, then he merely said, “Get in.” He pushed away from the Jeep and walked around to the driver’s side.

Mike dragged his eyes away from Ham’s ass with more effort than he wanted to admit to. He set his bags in the back of the Jeep and slid into the front passenger seat, trying to ignore the fact that was sitting this close to Ham again. The engine was already running, but Ham waited for Mike to get settled before he checked the rearview mirror and eased the Jeep away from the sidewalk.

Riding in an open Jeep wasn’t conducive to conversation, so the drive was made in silence. A benefit and a curse, because that same silence gave Mike too much time to recall the last time he’d run into Ham while on assignment, and the surprise of seeing him this time meant that Mike hadn’t had time to put up his defenses before coming face to face with him again. They’d always been like oil and water, but that last time it had been more like gasoline and an open flame. Mike couldn’t even remember which barb, spoken in the heat of the moment, had sparked the explosion.

They’d both come away from the . . . altercation . . . bruised and a little bloody. Ham had bitten Mike’s shoulder, and Mike had left furrows from his nails the length of Ham’s back. Mike’d had finger shaped bruises on his hips for days (as well as a reminder of that night each time he sat for the next day), and Ham had a mark on his neck that Mike had taken great pleasure in leaving.

Mike dragged his thoughts away from their last meeting and concentrated on his surroundings. The rutted dirt road they followed passed through several small villages, and Ham drove through them without stopping. Fields turned to trees, and flat land became rolling hills. Further out the road became little more than a trail and Mike had to concentrate on holding on so he wasn’t thrown from the Jeep.

Eventually Mike broke the silence to ask if they’d be driving the trail the rest of the way.

Succinct as always, “Nope,” said Ham.

An hour later Mike’s relief at Ham’s comment had turned into the desire to punch Ham in the face as he was forced to rearrange his bags so that everything he wanted to carry in with him fit into his pack. He’d have to leave the camera case, and whatever didn’t fit into his pack, in the Jeep. Ham, who already had everything he’d need in one bag was double-checking his weapons.

Mike grabbed the smaller camera, some batteries and extra film, and left the larger camera behind. “Are you sure this is going to be safe here?” he asked.

“Who’s going to come out all this way just to steal your camera?”

Mike bit his tongue. When he turned back from stowing the camera case in the back of the Jeep Ham was standing right in front of him. Startled, Mike jerked back. “Jesus, Tyler!” he swore.

“Always be aware of your surroundings,” Ham drawled, but Mike could discern a hint of amusement in his expression. Before Mike could formulate a retort, Ham said, “Are you carrying a gun?”

“No. I had to come unarmed.” Mike could shoot his way out of a tight spot if he had to, but given the people he normally dealt with, it was usually safer to be unarmed – the camera was sometimes better protection than a gun, in any case.

Ham held out his hand and Mike saw the Beretta lying across the palm. “I need you to be able to watch my back.”

“You trust me not to put a bullet in it?” Mike said, the words slipping out before he could think about it.

A slow smile spread across Ham’s face. “I’ve missed you, Donovan.”

Despite the words, Ham’s smile, which reminded Mike of a shark, didn’t inspire the warm fuzzies.

Ham set the Beretta on the hood of the Jeep and held up a shoulder holster. “Take off your shirt.”

Mike bit his tongue on a retort that would only embarrass him and unbuttoned his shirt. Ham slipped the holster on over Mike’s t-shirt. “I _can_ do that myself,” Mike said, but he didn’t pull away as Ham fitted the holster to him.

Having Ham this close was distracting. Finally he stepped back and handed the Beretta to Mike. “Make sure you can draw it.”

Mike holstered the Beretta, then practiced drawing it. The first attempt was jerky, but by the third try he’d smoothed out the motion.

Ham nodded his approval. “Now with the shirt on.”

Mike pulled his shirt back on, but left it unbuttoned in deference to the heat. He drew the Beretta a few times with the shirt on until he felt comfortable with the motion. Mike snapped the Beretta into the holster and helped Ham pull the camouflage net over the Jeep. They each shouldered their packs and the canteens. Ham picked up his rifle and led Mike away from the Jeep.

When they stopped for a break Mike took off his shirt and wiped the sweat from his face and neck. It did little good since the shirt was already soaked through. He sipped water from the canteen, making sure not to guzzle it even though he desperately wanted to, and resisting the urge to pour any over his heated skin and wasting it.

“What are you doing down here?” Mike asked.

He’d had a lot of time to think during their hike, even if he hadn’t been inclined to ask the questions at the time, saving his breath for keeping one foot moving in front of the other. Mike was in good shape, he worked out, ran, but the heat sapped all of his energy and made it nearly impossible to keep moving. He’d remembered how Ham had neatly dodged his earlier query about what he was doing here and decided to ask again. Ham being his guide to the rebels meant that the rebels trusted him, and Ham being here probably meant that the CIA was involved somehow.

Ham had been studying their surroundings, but at the question he turned his head to look at Mike. “I’d tell you, but then I’d have to kill you,” he drawled.

“Funny,” Mike said. If Ham hadn’t yet killed him during the course of their acquaintance, he wasn’t going to do so now. Still, Mike couldn’t suppress a shiver at the expression on Ham’s face. “The CIA’s backing the rebels,” Mike voiced his suspicions out loud. “Not keeping it much of a secret since you’re escorting me to them. The real question is, does the US government know?”

“You think the CIA would do anything without the express written approval of the President?” Ham said, feigning shocked hurt.

Mike snorted.

“The only thing the US government cares about is plausible deniability,” Ham said.

“So no, then,” Mike said, but he wondered at the disillusionment in Ham’s tone.

“The people that need to, know. The American public, on the other hand, doesn’t need to know. Unless you want your hypothetical support to dry up.”

Mike was torn, as Ham probably knew he would be. On one hand, he was a journalist – uncovering and reporting the truth was his job, and he prided himself on his integrity. On the other hand, he’d come here to talk to the rebels so their story could be told. He’d heard about, even reported on, the massacre of entire villages, the hostage taking of children as young as six years old, the rape of women, the killing of babies, but this would be the first time anyone had heard their story directly from the rebels themselves. He hadn’t come with the purpose of divulging from where the rebels were getting their support, only to make the world aware of their plight.

“You’re an ass,” Mike said, realizing that Ham had probably let him learn of his, and therefore the CIA’s, involvement just to toss him into this moral quandary.

Ham didn’t smile, but the lines at the corners of his eyes deepened. “Break’s over,” he said.

~*~*~*~

It was late morning when they reached the rebel camp. Mike estimated that they’d walked for two hours on top of the two they’d spent in the Jeep. He was hot and sweaty and could use a shower, but the activity of the rebel camp revived him. It was small, maybe 300 people, most of them women and children. Mike deduced by the size that this was not the main body of the rebel force.

They’d been stopped a mile out from the camp and surrounded by four men. They all seemed to know Ham, but he still provided the password which Mike figured would be changed as soon as they passed through the perimeter. The men allowed them to pass only after they’d radioed ahead of their arrival. A half mile out they were met by another group of men who walked with them the rest of the way to camp. Ham greeted one of the men, but otherwise the trip was made in silence.

At the camp Mike tried to take in everything without appearing to stare. The number of children in the camp was staggering. “What did they do, liberate an orphanage?” Mike asked sotto voce of Ham.

“Two days ago they rescued some of the children the military had stolen,” Ham said, sounding angry.

Somehow Mike knew that Ham’s anger wasn’t directed at him. “That must’ve pissed off somebody,” Mike commented.

“Yep.”

Some of the children carried the physical scars of their ordeal, and others, based on the expressions upon their young faces, bore those scars inside. Mike forced himself to look away from the children and observed the rest of the camp. Women tended the cooking fires, some of them carrying rifles on their backs. Some of the soldiers stared at Mike with indifference, others with suspicion. He wondered what their leader, known only to him as Javier, had told them about his presence there.

A man approached them and drew Mike’s attention away from his perusal of the camp. He spoke rapid fire Spanish to Ham, which Mike followed with only a little difficulty, as it wasn’t a dialect he was familiar with.

“You get that?” Ham said when the man walked away, barely sparing a glance for Mike.

Mike nodded. “Yeah.”

Javier wasn’t available right then to speak with Mike. Ham was instructed to show Mike where he could clean up and rest from the hike to the camp. He could observe the camp and speak with anyone that approached him, but he wasn’t to approach anyone for an interview, especially the children. Javier would meet with him later.

Ham led Mike to a tent near the back of the camp. He pushed open the flap and peered inside, then stepped back and gestured for Mike to enter. Mike took in the utilitarian nature of the interior at a glance. There was a bedroll, a small trunk, and not much else. Ham followed Mike into the tent and dropped his pack on the trunk. He held onto the rifle, though, Mike noted.

“Make yourself at home,” Ham said with a hint of sarcasm, as if he thought Mike incapable of roughing it.

Mike ignored the tone and took the invitation at face value. He shouldered out of his pack and carefully set it on the ground at his feet, cognizant of the camera inside.

“I’ll get you some water so you can wash up,” Ham said.

After Ham left, Mike realized just how uncomfortable he was inside the sweat-soaked t-shirt. He removed the holster, set it on the trunk beside Ham’s pack, and then pulled his t-shirt off over his head. The air was still hot, but it was amazing to feel it against his bare skin instead of the wet material. Mike ran his fingers through sweat-slicked hair, pushing it back from his face.

At a sound outside the tent Mike pushed back the flap and peered out. Ham was on one knee speaking softly to a young boy, the bucket of water he’d gone to fetch for Mike on the ground beside him. Ham gently touched the boy’s shoulder with the hand not holding the rifle. Mike had never before been privileged to see the expression of compassion on Ham’s face that he witnessed now.

The boy’s eyes flickered towards Mike, betraying his presence, but Ham didn’t react. Mike wasn’t surprised to realize that Ham had known he was there. Ham said one final thing to the boy and squeezed his shoulder before standing and swinging the bucket into his hand. The boy nodded, trying to put on a brave face, and then he turned and trudged back to a group of children.

Ham hesitated for only a second before turning and walking over to the tent – no one that didn’t know him as well as Mike had grown to would have noticed. “Wash up with this only,” Ham warned, ignoring the scene Mike had just witnessed. “Don’t drink it.”

Ham’s eyes flitted over Mike’s bare torso, and Mike saw the want in them, but it was quickly suppressed. “Get some rest while you can.”

“Is the boy alright?” Mike asked, saying the first thing that popped into his mind in a bid to keep Ham there a moment longer. He refused to examine too deeply the reasons why he wanted Ham to stay.

“None of them are alright,” Ham said, turning once more to leave.

“Do you have to leave?” Mike blurted.

“I thought you’d want some privacy,” Ham said. His eyes slid over Mike’s bare skin again. “Unless you wanted something else.”

Ham’s voice was like velvet against Mike’s skin, and he felt himself going warm with a heat that had nothing to do with the temperature outside. “No,” he denied, even though he did, which really annoyed him. “I just thought we could talk.”

Ham’s eyebrow went up at Mike’s blatant stretching of the truth, but all he said was, “We’re no good at talking.” Then he added. “We’re good at other things, though, but you’re too loud for us to do those without thicker walls.”

And then, as if to put the lie to his words, Ham curled his fingers around the back of Mike’s head and pulled him into a kiss that curled Mike’s toes. When Mike dunked his head into the bucket of water after Ham released him and left the tent, it had very little to do with the heat and everything to do with the way Ham Tyler made him feel.

Mike sluiced the sweat off his skin and let the air dry him off while he withdrew clean shirts and the camera and tape recorder from his pack. He was tempted to spread out on Ham’s bedroll, just for a moment, but there was too much for him to do to be able to relax. Mike stepped outside, intent on finding a place out of the way (and hopefully in the shade) to observe the camp. It would make for a far richer story if he could get a feel for the people and the life they led. He also hoped that, if he made himself visible and available, some of them might approach him so he could speak with them.

Ham hadn’t moved far from the tent and Mike felt a frisson of something he couldn’t identify, and refused to think too hard on, at the thought that Ham had remained near to make sure he was safe. And then Mike felt like a fool because the last thing he needed was Ham to keep him safe. Mike straightened his shoulders and Ham’s gaze dropped approvingly to the Beretta that wasn’t all that hidden beneath his shirt. At once Mike felt pleased that he’d thought to put it back on, and annoyed that he cared what Ham thought.

Mike found a tree just outside the camp that wasn’t already being used. He sat on the ground and rested his back against the rough bark. From his vantage point he had a view of the cooking fires, a group of children sitting together beneath another tree, and a small number of soldiers. Most people went about their business as if he wasn’t even there, but a few kept glancing his way.

Mike kept watch even as he tried to make himself appear as non-threatening as possible. He took notes and snapped some photographs since he hadn’t been told he couldn’t. When he was finally approached, it was from a quarter he hadn’t expected.

“Mr. Ham says you’re here to help us.”

It was the boy Ham had been speaking with.

“I hope to,” Mike replied in Spanish.

“How can you help us without weapons?” The boy indicated the Beretta. “You have just the one small gun.”

“I’m not a soldier,” Mike said. “I’m a reporter.” He indicated the camera, the tape recorder, and the small note pad upon which he’d been taking notes, as if that would explain everything.

“We don’t need words,” the boy said pragmatically. “We need guns.”

How, Mike thought, did one explain an intangible like the power of public opinion to a boy that had been kidnapped at gunpoint and held hostage against the ‘good behavior’ of his own people?

“You’re right,” Mike said. “I can’t offer you guns, or even training.” He couldn’t help glancing towards Ham. “But my words will reach a lot of people,” Mike continued, feeling inadequate to the task. “It’s not something you can hold onto, or see, but ideas can be very powerful things. The more people that know what’s going on down here the more help you might receive. It could be guns, or food, or it could be a government putting public pressure on the junta in this country to stop killing its own people. You might not see results today, or tomorrow, but in a week, or a month . . . .”

“This little squirt bothering you?” a gruff voice said.

Mike glanced up at Ham in surprise. He’d been so intent on his conversation with the boy that he hadn’t heard Ham’s approach.

“I’m not a squirt,” the boy said, sounding both irritated and pleased at the nickname.

“No,” Mike said. “He’s not bothering me at all.”

The boy gave Ham a look that clearly said, ‘So there’. Mike couldn’t help the chuckle that escaped. Ham squatted down beside Mike and gave the boy a look that Mike was sure had quelled many a recruit, but which didn’t seem to faze him any. However, when Ham announced that he was missing lunch the boy cast a panicked glance over his shoulder. The children had lined up at the cooking pots and the boy looked torn between joining them and staying to continue grilling Mike.

“Go,” Ham said gently. “You need to eat.”

Almost grudgingly the boy pushed himself to his feet. He looked at Ham as if he were reluctant to leave.

“Don’t worry,” Ham said. “I’ll say goodbye.”

The boy nodded at Ham, then looked at Mike. “I hope your words do what you say they can,” he said before turning and walking away, but he didn’t sound convinced that they would.

“So do I,” Mike said. When the boy was out of earshot, Mike reverted to English. “Why do children ask the toughest questions?”

“Because they haven’t been taught not to,” Ham said.

~*~*~*~

Mike expected Ham to leave then, but he stayed squatting beside Mike, both of them watching the children move through the line until they received their bowl of whatever was in the pots, and then found a place to sit and eat their meal.

“What’s his name?” Mike said.

Ham hesitated a moment, then said, “Emmanuel.”

“Emmanuel,” Mike repeated softly.

They fell back into silence, but it wasn’t an uncomfortable one. Several minutes later a woman approached. She wore a rifle on her back and carried two bowls in her hands. She stopped before Mike and Ham and handed each of them a bowl. They both thanked her, and Mike’s stomach rumbled in appreciation when the scent of it reached his nostrils.

The bowl contained some kind of stew, and a chunk of flatbread with which to eat it. “This smells delicious,” Mike said.

The woman merely gave Mike a look that would’ve blistered paint in response before turning on her heels and stalking off.

“ _She_ is not happy to see me,” Mike commented as he picked up the bread.

Ham snorted.

“Admit it, Tyler, you were happy to see me,” Mike said without thinking. He was probably lucky that Ham’s mouth was full at the time. Mike scooped up some stew with the flatbread and shoveled it into his mouth to keep from speaking again. It didn’t work, but at least the next thing he said wasn’t nearly as embarrassing.

“You can sit down, you know.”

Ham had put down the rifle so he could use both hands to eat, but he remained squatting. He slid his gaze towards Mike, but instead of regaling him with some tale about how he’d once remained in the squatting position, unmoving for days while waiting for a target, Ham merely sank to the ground beside Mike. He rested his back against the trunk and stretched out his legs in front of him. He’d settled close enough to Mike that their shoulders brushed.

Mike tried not to read too much into it. They ate in silence and the stew was soon gone. Mike used the last of the flat bread to mop up the broth and then licked his fingers clean. He caught Ham watching him in amusement.

“What? It was good!”

Moments later the camp quieted as the children finished eating and were settled down for a light siesta. Some of the women and a few of the soldiers joined them, but the majority of the soldiers remained awake and alert, despite the heat.

“Why aren’t more people resting?” Mike asked languidly, the heat of the day taking its toll on his energy.

“The camp’s been on alert since the children arrived yesterday,” Ham said.

“Why are they still here?” Mike wondered out loud.

Ham answered anyway. “It was a long march just getting here, they needed to rest before moving on.”

“When will that be?”

“As soon as the day begins to cool,” Ham said.

“They’re leaving tonight?”

“They’ll get several miles closer to safety before they have to stop for the night,” Ham said.

Keeping them in the camp for a night also meant that Mike had a chance to see them. Nothing got under people’s skin like seeing helpless animals or children abused.

As if Ham could read his thoughts, he said, “Emmanuel had a baby brother. They tore him out of Emmanuel’s arms and bashed his head against a rock before taking Emmanuel with them.”

Ham spoke dispassionately, as if he was talking about the weather, but Mike could feel the anger radiating off him. Not for the first time he found himself wondering what it was that drove Ham.

“The girls were raped,” Ham went on. “Repeatedly, and often by more than one bastard at a time. When they ran out of girls they turned to the boys. When they were displeased, or just drunk, they cut them. They broke Carla’s arm.” Ham gestured towards a group of children, though Mike couldn’t tell which one was Carla. “She didn’t get medical attention and it never healed properly. It’ll probably have to be amputated after they reach safety.

“One soldier punched Hector in the face because he fought back. He has a scar and can no longer see out of that eye. Most of the injuries you see weren’t caused by the war, but by the soldiers that took them.”

Intellectually Mike knew that atrocities such as these occurred. They’d happened throughout history, and happened even still. Yet each time he thought he’d become immune to the suffering, he felt himself experiencing the same outrage he had the very first time he’d been confronted by them. He supposed it was a good thing – when he could no longer feel compassion for the victims of these barbarous types of acts, when he’d lost his humanity, it would be time to get out of the reporting business.

As if he could no longer bear thinking about it, Ham took Mike’s bowl and stacked it inside his own. Without a word he picked up his rifle and carried the bowls over to be cleaned. Ham spoke to the woman that had delivered the food. She glanced over at Mike, and then deliberately turned away. Without another look in Mike’s direction Ham moved off. Mike saw him speak with a group of soldiers, and then he disappeared between the trees.

No one approached Mike and it gave him too much time to think. He wondered again about Ham’s presence there in the rebel camp, about the timely rescue of the children. He couldn’t blame them for wanting a greater impact for his visit, and he couldn’t deny that the children were better off here than they had been with the army. Nor could he argue that their stories wouldn’t move his audience as much as they had him.

~*~*~*~

Mike was just giving in to the heat of the day and closing his eyes when he sensed someone beside him. He opened his eyes and started when he saw the woman from earlier squatting beside him. Ignoring his reaction, the woman spoke her first words to him.

“General Tyler says you’ll tell our story.”

Mike didn’t know whether he was more surprised by her calling Ham a general, or that she had spoken to him at all.

“Yes,” Mike said.

“Most of us don’t like to talk about it.”

Mike nodded. He couldn’t even imagine the nightmares these people lived with each day. She looked away from him, and Mike wondered if she was having second thoughts about speaking with him. Finally she spoke. Her voice was so low that Mike had to strain to hear her and he wondered whether the recorder would be able to pick it all up.

“The government arrested my husband because he protested when the soldiers came to our village and took most of our food – the grain from our fields, the vegetables from our gardens, the goats from our pens. Without that food our children were going to go hungry, our elderly wouldn’t make it through the winter. They laughed when my husband told them this, when he begged them to not take so much. Eduardo grew angry – he tried to stop them from loading a basket onto the truck. They beat him and took him with them when they left.”

She paused for a moment, as if telling her story had drained her. “They would not let me see him, or speak to him. I do not even know whether he’s sitll alive.” She raised her eyes to Mike’s. “But my story is no worse than any other here.” She gestured around the camp. “And some are much worse than mine. The children . . . they have endured so much. _We_ have endured _too_ much. The government, they take and they take . . . .”

She broke off, as if it was too much for her, and then she continued. “We’re making them care.”

She left abruptly after making that statement. Mike watched her walk across the camp, her shoulders back and her head high, though he could see the pain etched on her face. She hadn’t give Mike her name, so he included a description in the notes he made after turning off the recorder, denoting her as ‘the woman who brought the stew and didn’t kill me with her brain even though it looked like she wanted to’. It was long, but accurate.

As if she had broken the ice, others, both men and women, began to approach Mike and tell him their stories – each more horrific than the last. Children stolen from their homes, husbands and wives beaten and jailed or killed for protesting, entire villages massacred if they dared rebel, pregnant women raped and killed, and the list went on. When the camp started stirring and preparing for the children to leave, Mike was almost relieved. The story, when he put it together, might win him a Pulitzer, but just hearing the stories of the suffering these people had gone through was emotionally exhausting.

Mike emptied his mind as he watched the people bustling about the camp. He wished he meditated, or did that newfangled yoga that was so popular. Mike caught Ham’s gaze on him, and it seemed to be judging him – if you can’t take the heat, get out of the kitchen, he thought it said. Mike looked away and picked up his notebook. He transcribed as much of the stories as he could remember without listening to the taped conversations.

Eventually Mike put down his notebook and picked up his camera. He took pictures of the children, some huddled together in fear, some playing a game; of an armed rebel laying down his rifle and picking up a child that walked with a crutch, setting her on his shoulders; of a young boy with a damaged eye and a scar down his cheek, smiling. Mike lowered the camera and looked for Ham. He stood off to the side with Emmanuel.

From where he sat Mike could see the tears that streaked Emmanuel’s cheeks. The boy clung to Ham’s leg and pressed his face to Ham’s hip. Ham awkwardly patted Emmanuel’s back. When the boy didn’t release him, Ham gently extricated himself and knelt before Emmanuel. Ham spoke, and Mike wished he’d learned to read lips. Emmanuel nodded in response to whatever Ham said, and then he lunged forward, throwing his arms around Ham’s shoulders and burying his face in Ham’s neck. Ham knelt there for a moment, unmoving, and then he brought his arms up around Emmanuel’s back and returned the hug.

Mike raised the camera. It was dangerous, having Ham’s face on film, but he couldn’t resist capturing the moment, having proof that there was a softer side to Ham Tyler. He’d have to develop the photographs himself and destroy the negative, but it would be worth the extra effort. Mike refused to think too deeply on why it mattered to him to have this evidence that there was more to Ham than met the eye.

Within the hour the children were lined up and ready to march, with about thirty of the adults accompanying them. Mike rose to his feet to see them off. Ham came over and stood beside him. They didn’t speak. Mike waved when he saw Emmanuel, and beside him Ham made a gesture that he didn’t see. Emmanuel tried to smile, putting on a brave face to cover his misery at leaving Ham. They watched until the last person disappeared down the trail and was lost in the trees. The camp grew silent, almost eerily so without the soft voices of the children to serves as a background noise.

“Are you alright?” Mike ventured.

“I’m fine,” Ham growled, and walked away.

~*~*~*~

Mike met with Javier after the children left. He first took note of the man that turned out to be Javier when he saw him speaking to the rebel that had first approached Mike and Ham to tell them that Javier wasn’t available. He remembered seeing him earlier, helping to organize the children, speaking softly to them. Mike had actually thought he’d be one of the adults accompanying the children – he looked more like a school teacher than a soldier. Though Mike knew that didn’t matter anymore – this was a time when even housewives and mothers took up arms to protect their homes, their children.

The two men spoke at length, and then they met with several groups of rebels. Some of the rebels moved out of the camp, and Mike wondered if they were relieving those on duty at the perimeter. Like a shadow Ham appeared out of the trees. He spoke with the two men, and Mike wished he could hear what they were saying. A moment later they were joined by the woman, and all four of them glanced in Mike’s direction.

Mike prided himself on not squirming – too much. At least the woman’s death glare had been taken down a notch. She was warming up to him. Ham waved him over and Mike got to his feet as quickly as he could. He walked over to where the four waited for him and Ham made the introductions.

“Javier, this is Mike Donovan; Donovan, Javier.”

Javier held out his hand and Mike clasped it in his own.

“Mr. Tyler has told me many good things about you,” Javier said in heavily accented English.

Mike stored that away for later contemplation and merely said, “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Javier.”

“Come, let’s sit.”

Javier led the way to a tent, in front of which were two low folding stools. He gestured Mike to one and took the other. The others didn’t follow, though the two rebels looked ready to jump to Javier’s defense at the slightest provocation. Mike wondered whether Ham would be just as quick to jump to Mike’s defense, and then pulled his mind back from that train of thought.

Up close Javier looked even more like a school teacher – he wore glasses, and gray sprinkled his unkempt beard – unkempt more because it wasn’t a priority, it seemed to Mike, rather than because he didn’t have the means available to him to trim it in their temporary camp.

Mike said, ”Forgive me for saying so, Javier, but you look more like a school teacher than the leader of a rebel group that is causing General Rafa Mendoza so much trouble.”

Javier laughed. “Close,” he said. “I was a journalist.” He held up his right hand and showed Mike his gnarled fingers – they’d been broken and not allowed to heal properly.

“This government has no use for journalists. Not those who tell the truth, anyway. Or ask questions.” Javier looked at his own hand. “They let me live as a warning to others. But I was not ready to be silenced.”

“How did you go from that, to this?”

Javier gave Mike a wry smile. “I made the mistake of saying, ‘we should do something!’” He shook his fist to emphasize his point. “And then people began to look to me to do something.”

“Be careful what you wish for, eh?”

Javier smiled. “Exactly so.”

“Why did you agree to speak to me?”

“Our people are dying,” Javier said. “Everyday Mendoza ‘cleanses’ another village. Killing his own people as if they were cockroaches beneath his boot.”

Javier spoke softly, passionately, for over an hour, telling Mike of the horrors he’d witnessed with his own eyes, of what he’d found when they arrived too late to evacuate a village before the army arrived, what he’d heard from those that left their homes everyday to join with the resistence.

“Tell me about the children,” Mike said, and Javier spoke of the families torn apart when their children were taken hostage in a bid to make them more malleable. But they knew what happened to children the military took. Javier told Mike how he’d sent men to scout out the camps where the children were being held, and then waited for an opportunity to take them back.

The anniversary of Mendoza taking control of the country after deposing the democratically elected Daniel Pena was just that opportunity. Mike could see why Mendoza would have been distracted on that day, given the celebrations taking place in the capitol city. It was also the reason that he, and dozens of other journalists from around the world, had been allowed into the country. (And how Mike had been able to meet with Javier today after sneaking out of the capitol and making his way to the village where Ham had met him.) Mike felt the slightest bit guilty for having thought that the children had been brought to the camp solely for his benefit.

“We’ve been fighting a defensive war,” Javier went on. “Despite your friend, we do not have the men, the weapons, or the training, to take the fight to Mendoza.”

“Is that what you want?” Mike said. “To be able to take the war to Mendoza?”

“We want peace,” Javier said immediately. “I dream of peace. But people like Mendoza, they don’t believe in peace. Even if we stop fighting today there will not be peace. Mendoza will continue to build his government on the bodies of the people he kills.”

“What if you win, what then?”

“We will re-institute free elections, for one thing.” Javier barked a humorless laugh. “But I will be sure not to say, ‘we need someone in office that cares about his people’. At least, not where anyone can hear me.”

“You don’t want to be President?”

Javier threw up his hands. “What do I know about running a country?”

“What did you know about leading rebels?”

“Bah!” Javier said, and then looked up as someone approached. Javier spoke in Spanish. “Is it time, Juan?”

The man ignored Mike. “Yes, Javier,” he said respectfully.

Javier sighed. “I’m sorry that we must cut our conversation short, but I have business to attend to. It was a pleasure to speak with you.”

Javier rose from the low stood with a fluid grace that belied the liberal sprinkling of silver in his beard, and extended his hand. Mike stood and shook Javier’s hand.

“The pleasure was all mine, Javier,” Mike said.

Javier left Mike and joined the two rebels that Mike had decided were his closest advisors. Since they both gave Mike similar looks of distrust, he decided to call the woman ‘Juanita’. Mike chuckled to himself at the ridiculous symmetry.

“What’s so funny?”

Mike jumped at Ham’s voice right over his shoulder. He didn’t give Ham the satisfaction of commenting on having been startled, though. Instead he just shook his head and said, “Nothing,” even though the corners of his lips were still twitching at his silly joke.

“Come on,” Ham said. “We have to get going.”

“Going where?” Mike said as he fell into step with Ham.

“We’re leaving,” Ham said as he bent his head and stepped inside the tent.

“Why? What’s going on?” Mike questioned, even as he began the process of carefully stowing the camera (less the film, which he removed and stuffed into the front pocket of his pants for safekeeping) and recorder into his pack.

“Mendoza’s army is coming.”

Ham sounded grim, and something else Mike couldn’t quite put his finger on.

“How do you know?”

Mike hoisted his pack onto his shoulders. Ham had already done the same. Mike noticed that the trunk that had sat at the foot of the bedroll was no longer there.

“We’ve got people watching them,” Ham said as they ducked out of the tent. “They’ll be here by morning, but by then you’ll be across the border.”

“Aren’t we going with them?” Mike said, indicating Javier and the other rebels gathered around him.

“No,” Ham said. “They’re not going very far.”

Mike turned to look at Ham. “They’re staying to fight?”

“They’ve been planning and preparing for this moment for months,” Ham said. “Let’s go.” Ham raised his hand to Javier and his men, received a wave in return, and then led Mike to a trail different from the one the children had taken earlier.

They’d been walking for about five minutes when Mike replayed what Ham had said just before they’d left the camp. “Wait,” he said. “You said they’d been planning for _this moment_ for months. What did you mean?”

“The rebels don’t have the numbers or the resources to take on the army in a straight up battle, which is why they’ve had to resort to guerilla tactics – ambushing patrols, supplies. We’ve been working on a plan to lure them into a trap.”

Mike thought about everything he’d seen that day at the camp. “The children.” They’d been rescued just days ago and were even now being moved to safety. Ham had happily admitted that the move had pissed ‘someone’ off. A man like Mendoza would not take kindly to his authority be usurped by a bunch of rebels. But how did he know where the rebel camp was? And why attack their temporary camp instead of their home base?

“How do they know where this camp is?”

Ham just looked at Mike.

“What, you think _I_ told them? I didn’t even know where the camp was!”

Ham shook his head. “They tracked you. Do you really think you’d have been able to sneak away to the village if Mendoza hadn’t allowed it?” he said without condemnation.

Mike _had_ thought that very thing, but he tried not to let it sting his pride too much. “If you knew I was being tracked, why didn’t you do something about it?”

“Because we wanted them to track you.”

“You . . . what?” When Ham didn’t say anything else, Mike said, “Are you telling me that you _used_ me to spring this trap?”

“Yep.”

Mike didn’t know how he felt about that. People were going to die come morning, and it was because of a role he’d unwittingly played. He remained silent, mulling over his thoughts as they continued trekking through the trees. They walked for an hour before they came to a road that was little better than the trail they’d been walking. A Jeep waited for them – their Jeep, Mike would soon discover.

Ham greeted the driver with a few gruff words and a handshake, then took the front passenger seat, rifle held at the ready to shoot their way out of any trouble they encountered along the way, and waved Mike to the backseat. Mike took a deep breath and climbed into the Jeep. He was surprised to find his camera case, and even more surprised to find the rest of his luggage, which he’d left behind at the hotel back in the village where he’d met up with Ham.

A thirty minute drive took them to an airstrip where Mike and Ham were loaded onto a small plane that was not much better than a crop duster. Twenty minutes later they were across the border. Another Jeep met them at the airfield on the other side and drove them forty-five minutes to the nearest village where Ham already had a room waiting for them.

He’d thought of everything, Mike thought, partly impressed and thankful, and still partly annoyed at being manipulated.

Mike was almost surprised that Ham didn’t just drop him off at the hotel and leave. Instead he climbed into the bed beside Mike, fan whirling softly above them, and said, “Go to sleep, Gooder.”

~*~*~*~

Mike woke alone in a strange bed. It took him several seconds to remember the events of yesterday and where he was. Mike slowly sat up and looked around the room. He spied his luggage and clothes laying where he’d dropped them the night before, too tired to do much more than splash his face with lukewarm water before falling into bed, but no sign of Ham. He didn’t know whether to be relieved or disappointed about that.

At the sound of a key in the lock Mike pulled the sheet up and darted his eyes around the room, searching for the Beretta. The door was pushed open and Ham stepped into the room. His eyebrows went up when he saw Mike clutching the sheet to his chest like a blushing virgin.

“I’ve seen it all already,” Ham drawled as he kicked the door shut behind him with a booted foot.

Mike let the sheet drop. “I didn’t know who it was,” he said defensively.

“So you went for the sheet?” Ham said, amused.

Mike shrugged. “I didn’t see the Beretta.” He changed the subject when the smell of fresh bread tickled his nostrils, reminding him that he hadn’t eaten since lunch the day before. “What have you got there?”

“Breakfast.” Ham set the tray of fruit, breads, and cheese on the bed beside Mike. He sat on one of the wooden chairs – it creaked under his weight, but held – and removed his boots.

The fruit was fresh and the bread still warm from the oven. Hungrier than he’d realized until the scent of food had reawakened his appetite, Mike dug in. He tried to ignore Ham, who had stood and was now removing his t-shirt.

“Are you going back?” Mike asked, mainly to have something to say.

“Who’s asking?” Ham said, his hands going to the waistband of his pants.

Mike turned his gaze away from what Ham’s hands were doing. “I am,” he said softly, hoping Ham understood that Mike the individual, not Donovan the reporter, wanted to know..

“Yes, I’m going back,” Ham said. “But not before you’re safely on a plane back to the States.”

Mike raised his eyes. Ham stood naked beside the bed. He leaned over and snagged a piece of fruit, then moved the tray off the bed and set it on the low table.

“Your flight’s not for a while,” Ham said. He took a corner of the sheet between index finger and thumb and drew it down. Mike didn’t protest as he was bared to Ham’s eyes.

“Whatever shall we do to kill the time?” Mike managed to get out, speaking lightly even though his throat felt dry, and his tongue too large for his mouth.

Ham grinned at him, and Mike felt like the poor baby seal about to get gobbled up by the shark. “I’m glad you asked,” he said as he crawled onto the bed.

Mike let Ham push him back onto the pillows. “Just promise me one thing.”

“I promise to be gentle,” Ham said, the corners of his lips twitching.

Mike punched him in the shoulder. “I’m serious.”

Ham raised his eyebrows and waited.

Mike stroked his fingers down Ham’s arm as he searched for the courage to say what he wanted to. “Don’t get killed, okay?”

“Why, Donovan, I didn’t know you cared.”

“Shut up, Tyler, and . . . .”

Ham crushed their mouths together with enough force to bruise. Never one to back down, especially with Ham, Mike gave back as good as he got. He wondered how long it would be before he saw Ham again, if their paths would _ever_ cross again, and decided to make sure that Ham had plenty to remind him of this meeting, if it be their last.

Mike bit Ham’s tongue and dug his nails into Ham’s shoulders. Ham made a sound that stole away Mike’s breath, and then closed his teeth on Mike’s throat. Yeah, Mike thought as Ham marked him, his own nails leave his mark on Ham, it would be an encounter neither of them would soon forget.

The End


End file.
